


You Never Expect To Have To Piss On Your Brother

by Fledhyris



Series: One-shot Humour [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, First aid not kink, Gen, Gratuitous PotC jokes, Helpful Sam Winchester, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Jellyfish, Monster getting intimate with Dean Winchester, Monster of the Week, Pee, Season/Series 02, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledhyris/pseuds/Fledhyris
Summary: While investigating a strange series of jellyfish related deaths, Dean has a close personal encounter with the culprit: and Sam is forced to try an unusual method of emergency pain relief.Happy (very belated) birthday to my freaky brain twin, Alltheshrinks. Don't choke laughing! Xx“Sorry Dean. It’s tentacles. And mild suffering. Then comedy. It’s like the trifecta.”The s1 finale came out in May 2006 but there was a jump in air-time to September for s2 which would have been impossible canonically (from their crash with the truck in 1:22 straight to Dean in hospital in 2:01) so for the purposes of continuity I’m assuming the first part of season 2 took place in the summer of that year, which is when this story is set. It also neatly allows for the release of the movie which Dean frequently quotes from.
Series: One-shot Humour [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525979
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	You Never Expect To Have To Piss On Your Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alltheshrinks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltheshrinks/gifts).

They were investigating a series of deaths along the Florida coast, which the press were attributing to a freak bloom of jellyfish. Except that friends and relatives of several of the victims claimed they never got stung, and there had been no sightings of the supposed bloom. All the deaths occurred at night, in bed, which was being reported as a delayed reaction, and just sounded… well, fishy. Plus, one victim had a broken arm, which made it unlikely that he had been swimming. The only connections between them were that they were all young to middle aged men, reasonably fit (discounting the bust arm) and all known to swim, surf or at least go out regularly walking or jogging along the beach. It was presumed, though not confirmed in all cases, that each one of them had visited the sea at some point on the day prior to their deaths.

Dean pulled back the sheet from the latest victim, one Jake Sullivan, a handsome blond surfer. He whistled at the damage, as Sam winced and took a step back. It looked as though Jake had swum right through a swarm of the things; purpled, puffy welts crossed his body from chest to thighs, as though he’d been wrapped in Christmas tree lights and electrocuted. Which wouldn’t have been the strangest theory either, except for it being the wrong time of year, and there was that whole coastal connection.

“So, what are we thinking here?” Dean asked with a glance over his shoulder. “Natural causes like the papers are saying? Or maybe the deaths are natural - kinda - but not the cause. Davy Jones putting out hits on the locals - maybe people who’ve given his movie bad reviews?” 

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. The second Pirates of the Caribbean movie had come out this summer and Dean had really enjoyed it. Sam could see a theme developing here and knew he would have to summon infinite reserves of patience to deal with his brother in full-on comedian mode. As long as he didn’t go back to joking about beard tentacles...

Dean took in Sam’s pained expression and smirked, twitching the sheet further aside to reveal the poor guy’s junk, swollen like a sea cucumber. “Nasty way to go, zapped right in the tackle. Not the best end to a day out at the beach. Unless, you know, we’re looking for a crazy dominatrix with an electro-whip. Bzzzt!” He made a descriptive gesture, just to elaborate.

“Dean, have a little respect,” Sam groused. “Besides, he wasn’t killed out surfing. He died like all the others, at home in bed. No way this was natural.”

“So my theory’s holding up so far,” Dean turned to grin at his brother and waggled his eyebrows. “Bzzzt?”

Sam rolled his eyes. Bring back beard tentacles and all would be forgiven… “Yeah, sure, in your dreams,” he snarked back. “And it wasn’t electrocution. The report seems pretty conclusive, this guy definitely died from jellyfish stings. The only question is how.”

“Crazy domme threw a bucketful of the things over his lap?” Dean suggested.

“Dude, quit with the dominatrix theories!” Sam shot back, exasperated. “Although… you could be onto something there.” He ran his hand through his hair, staring down at the sorry spectacle of Jake. “It could just be some human crazy, on a vengeance spree…”

“They were all alone when they died, right?” Dean checked. Sam nodded absently, his brow furrowed in thought. “So,” Dean went on, “police aren’t _that_ stupid. No signs of breaking and entry, and if they’d been entertaining a -” he caught the warning flash of Sam’s eyes and grinned back insouciantly, “_guest_ of any sort, you’d think they’d have picked up something by now, with the number of deaths.”

“So we’re sticking with the supernatural,” Sam affirmed. Which had been their gut feeling all along. It was just… the method was so far outside what they were used to dealing with. He’d never heard of any kind of monster which stung its victims to death like this. 

“Ghost, maybe?” he suggested, doubtful. It would explain how it got in and out without leaving any signs, but again, the stingers..? 

“Drowned pirate taking out beachcombers who stumble on his secret buried treasure?”

Sam’s look this time was scathing. “Dean, if you’re not going to take this seriously…”

Dean threw his arms wide. “Hey! I’m serious. As serious as possible, given all these guys were stung to death _in their beds_ by jellyfish. I mean, this is crazy even for us. You got a better explanation then I’m all ears.” 

“It could be witchcraft,” Sam supplied.

“Well, witchcraft means hex bags,” Dean replied, “so we can check for those while we search Surfer Dude’s apartment.”

He pulled the sheet over Jake Sullivan’s head and rolled him back into his refrigeration drawer, and they left the morgue.

~O~ ~O~ ~O~

A search of the ex-surfer’s apartment yielded no clues at all, so they headed down to the beach, to “See what we can _sea_,” as Dean kept repeating with unsubtle emphasis, grinning at his brother, who remained distinctly unimpressed. At last he switched to humming ‘fifteen men on the dead man’s chest’ which Sam found easier to ignore.

The beach didn’t offer up any more clues than Jake’s apartment, and neither did a chat with his surfer buddies, who were all hanging around at some kind of commemorative ceremony. They did confirm that he hadn’t had a run-in with any jellyfish - they scoffed at this outlandish fabrication by the papers. Any jelly blooms in the area, they would know about.

“Dude, know what to do if you do get stung by a jelly?” one of the surfers offered. “You gotta piss on the sting; acid in the urine helps counteract the poison. Honest truth.” 

He looked serious, but his mates’ snorts of laughter were ill concealed, so neither brother put much stock in the ‘advice’.

On their way back, Dean stumbled a little as his foot hit something partially buried in the sand. He stopped and dug up an old glass jar, half full of sand and ocean detritus including a small dead crab. He stared at it for a moment then held it up as a broad grin crept across his face.

“Dean, no…” Sam warned, but it was futile.

“I’ve got a jar of dirt…” Dean began, sing-song style.

“Seriously..!” Sam held up a hand - he’d had enough.

“And guess what’s inside it!” Dean finished, swinging the jar towards his brother and showering Sam with the contents.

“That’s it, we’re done here. I’m going back to the motel.” Sam turned on his heel and stomped his way up the beach, swatting furiously at the sand lodged in his hair. Dean tossed the jar into the sea and then trailed after him, smirking fit to bust. If they couldn’t get very far with this case, at least he could get on Sammy’s.

~O~ ~O~ ~O~

August, on the Florida coast, and the air conditioning in their room was woefully inadequate. Dean shoved the window as wide as it would go - “I don’t care what could climb inside, or how those men died, a night in this oven and they’ll find us marinated in our own juices” - and stripped down to his boxers, throwing himself down on top of the covers. Of course he’d claimed the bed nearest the window, but when Sam threw him darkling looks, he just grinned and patted his pillow, under which he’d shoved his .45.

By three in the morning, Sam was having trouble sleeping, what with the closeness of the room. He glared across at Dean, who was sound asleep, doubtless enjoying the cool flow of air that dropped over the open windowsill onto his bare skin. Sam gave up and went out to get ice, and a few lungfuls of slightly fresher air.

Dean woke gradually to the gentle cadence of a woman’s singing, high and pure and wordless; an angel’s refrain if he’d ever heard one. He felt good, relaxed and content, and riding the building crest of pleasure that came, he realised, from a hand gently stroking his belly and thighs. His eyes snapped open and he saw the woman, standing by the foot of his bed and smiling down at him as she trailed her fingers over his skin. She was beautiful, almost glowing in the moonlight; pale skin, artfully tumbled ringlets and a gauzy summer dress whose thin material left very little to the imagination, especially since she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath.

Still, his hunter’s sense kicked in enough to have him struggling up on his elbows, trying to form words coherent enough to ask who she was and what she was doing, uninvited (though not necessarily at all unwelcome!) in his room. His hand snaked under his pillow and, fumbling, gripped the cool metal of his gun, but the woman’s smile grew wider and the song grew softer, seductive. Dean smiled back a little woozily and dropped back, letting his fingers relax. He made no move to complain when she wrapped her other hand around his cock, stroking him quickly to full hardness as the first hand continued its feather light exploration of his skin. She must already have peeled back his boxers, they were tangled around his knees and he writhed around on the bed for a moment, managing to kick them all the way off without dislodging the hand that was playing so skilfully with his erection. There, that was better; now he could spread his legs and give her unrestricted access...

The song wove through his thoughts, soothing and confusing. He forgot that he was a hunter, he forgot about the case they were working; he forgot everything except the haunting beauty of the music which swelled in his mind as he swelled in her hands, and he gave himself up to her completely as she coaxed him expertly to the brink.

Pain brought him crashing back to reality, with a jolt like a thousand electrical needles being stabbed into his most tender flesh. His eyes startled wide, he stared in bewildered betrayal as his mouth stretched into a soundless scream. He couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing, as the woman’s features seemed to waver and dissolve, flowing together into a formless shape and he blinked furiously to rid his eyes of tearing moisture. Then, as searing agony ripped the hallucination from his brain, he saw the monster for what it was - no woman, but a giant, floating jellyfish that hovered over the end of his bed, its ghostly tentacles splayed out like ribbons, undulating over his skin. It had him firmly in its clutches, and everywhere the flimsy ropes touched, he prickled and burned, even as it squeezed and milked him of every last drop of his orgasm. Now Dean did scream, fury and disgust lending weight to the impetus of pain, and he searched blindly under his pillow for his gun.

As the door slammed wide and Sam barrelled into the room, shouting his brother’s name, Dean fired, again and again, pumping all eight rounds into the globular ‘head’ of the creature. They were ordinary bullets, but they seemed to do the trick; the monster exploded in a shower of gelatinous goo and stringy bits of tentacle, all over the bed, and Dean.

It didn’t stop the pain.

“Sam, help me, argh; get it off, _getitoff..!_” Dean cried, rolling around as he scrabbled at his crotch, trying desperately to scrub off the stinging remains still wrapped around his rapidly softening (though paradoxically swelling) cock.

“Dean, shit! What should I do, what can I do?” Sam yelled, hovering anxiously beside the bed, reluctant to lay hands on his brother’s exposed flesh despite his evident discomfort.

“Gerremoffme it freaking stings!” Dean wailed, his nails leaving bloody scratches as he dug into his own skin. The tentacles were slippery and stuck tightly; he wasn’t having much luck peeling them off, and they needled him constantly so that his whole crotch felt like it was on fire.

“Dean, stop, you’re only hurting yourself!” Sam clutched at his head, trying to think. He’d caught a glimpse of the monster hovering over the bed just before it exploded in the hail of Dean’s bullets; jellyfish, it was a giant freaking jellyfish, and only earlier today, someone had told them -

“Pee!” he shouted as it came to him. “I have to pee on you, to neutralise the poison!”

Despite the pain, Dean stopped clawing at himself and turned to stare at Sam in disbelief.

“NO! No way,” he gritted out, “oh no freaking WAY are you… There’s got to be something else, find another-”

“It has to be something acidic,” Sam argued, “and we don’t have anything, there isn’t _time,_ the surfer dude told us; Dean, come on, do you want it to stop stinging or not?”

Dean whimpered, clutching at himself partly due to the incessant pain and partly for protection. He stared up at his brother, panic showing the whites of his eyes.

“Wh… what if it becomes my thing?” he protested, his tone suspiciously close to a whine, and he jerked and hissed as the pain hooked his muscles into spasm.

“What if - what are you talking about?” Sam asked, hands checking momentarily as he went to unbuckle his belt.

“You know,” Dean said, his voice high with mounting pain and hysteria, “you read about people... and their lives change and… what if I really get off on being pissed on?!” 

“Oh my God, Dean, it’s a risk we’re going to have to take!” Sam exploded, rushing to get his pants open and his own cock out of his underwear. Truth be told, he’d come back to the room because of needing to piss, only to be brought up short by the confrontation; and now, he really needed to go, so it was either on Dean or in his shorts, because he didn’t think he could hold it long enough to get to the bathroom. 

“Now move your hands!” he shouted, and took aim at the general area.

Dean moaned, but turned his head aside and whipped his hands away from his groin just as the stream hit. It was warm, and wet, but discounting the knowledge of what it actually was, really not that unpleasant. In fact, as the… liquid… continued to splash and pool over his skin (and sure, Sam was big, but seriously, how much could his little brother hold?) the stinging started to abate; it still hurt, but now less like fire ants were crawling all over his dick and more just like a bad case of sunburn. He let loose one final whimper of mortification as Sam finally seemed to run out of juice and the flow became a drizzle, then a spatter, and stopped. He heard the sound of a zipper, then Sam clearing his throat.

“Is that better?” Sam asked, tentatively.

“Yes... and no,” Dean answered, his voice strangled. This whole thing had _so_ not happened. He was never going to live it down.

“Is it your thing?” Sam just had to ask next.

“No it’s not my fucking thing!” Dean shot back, savagely, whipping his head around to glare at his brother.

“Well that’s something then, at any rate,” Sam grinned back at him, and Dean bit back any further retort because he could see that Sam was embarrassed too, and his smile was placatory, not provocative.

Dean looked down at the sodden, slightly steaming mess of the bed and groaned quietly. “We’ve left some pretty shady damage in motels before now,” he said, “but this just takes the cake. Reckon we should take the sheets outside and burn ‘em?”

“They’re too wet, it wouldn’t work,” Sam disagreed. “Just bundle them up and throw them in the shower… well, after you’ve taken your turn. And, honestly? Can’t be the first time a rock star’s pissed the hotel sheets,” he joked. As usual, their aliases were a nod to classic rock, this time Robert Plant and James Page, of Led Zeppelin.

Dean shifted gingerly, wincing as the movement pulled at sore skin, but was able to stand up and move into the shower. Now that he wasn’t panicking, and as the warm water further soothed his stinging flesh, he was inspired to scrape the clinging tendrils away with the edge of a knife he had Sam bring in to him.

“Should’a probably just got in the shower in the first place,” he grumbled, as he got to work.

“No, the guy said it had to be something acidic,” Sam argued from just outside the door, where he was hovering in case he was needed, but giving Dean some much needed visual privacy. “And now I can think straight, I vaguely recall something about jellyfish stings and… how you deal with them. We’ll have to look it up, later.”

“We got any alcohol?” Dean wondered when he eventually came out of the shower, a little stiffly.

“No, rubbing alcohol is very pH neutral; you’d be better off using beer if it’s still stinging,” Sam suggested.

“I didn’t mean for that!” Dean retorted. “I need a drink! Wait - you mean we could have used beer..?” He glared at Sam, incredulous.

Sam blinked back at him owlishly. “We could have, but the beer’s in the cooler in the trunk and… time seemed to be of the essence,” he said disingenuously. 

“Oh, now I really need a drink,” Dean growled. “We got anything stronger than beer? And I don’t care about the pH levels!”

“No,” Sam responded promptly. “We drank it already; and before you start bitching, it was your turn to restock.”

“Why is the rum always gone?” Dean asked sadly of the room in general, feeling sufficiently recovered from his ordeal to start in on the Captain Jack Sparrow jokes again.

“Oh, stop taking the piss,” Sam told him, and threw a pillow at his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this hilarious sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cd-_AMSQgPE) by British comedian Russell Howard. The moment I watched it, I thought of Sam and Dean and couldn’t resist.
> 
> Plant was the vocalist of Led Zeppelin and Page was the guitarist, in a nod to the musical pursuits of J2.  
While researching the whacky behaviour of rock stars in hotels, I didn't find anything on peeing the bed but I did come across [the astonishing story of Led Zeppelin and the mudshark.](https://www.loudersound.com/features/fishing-for-the-truth-the-ever-changing-story-of-led-zeppelin-s-mudshark) It’s an eye opener for sure. Caution: mature sexual theme.
> 
> **PSA: This is fiction.** The enduring (largely because it is hilarious) myth of pee working to counteract jellyfish stings comes from the idea that the stings are alkaline and pee is usually at least mildly acidic (on a par with beer). However, urine can be more or less acidic, and even in some circumstances alkaline, depending on diet, health and time of day, so it’s an unreliable aid. Scientific experimentation has also shown that both urine and lemon juice - which is much more strongly acidic - can actually aggravate the stingers, causing them to pump more venom. Vinegar - the tried and tested solution of Australian surfers - is the real life antidote: it actually fixes the stinging cells so that they can’t fire. Rinsing with seawater is not recommended, contrary to popular suggestion, as this just disperses the stinging cells over the skin; and fresh water is definitely out as this would disturb the electrolyte balance of the stingers. Given Dean’s situation, with nothing else available, Sam’s concentrated morning pee was probably the best (if a poor) solution.


End file.
